The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

Yet a horribly familiar awkwardness had enveloped her. This was sure to end badly; she should never have allowed herself to get into such an alarming situation. Jack had accused her of being a ‘block of ice’, incapable of showing love and affection. He’d been right. Already she felt sickeningly tense, her nerves as taut as piano wires.

  ‘Something is the matter?’ Philippe frowned. ‘You look as if you would rather I left.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you think,’ Grace blurted out, certain that she was about to make a fool of herself. ‘But — God, I’ll just say it — I’ve only ever made love with one man.’

  ‘Ah. And it wasn’t good, is that it?’

  She blushed. ‘A disaster, actually.’

  ‘Well, let us see if we can improve upon that,’ he said. ‘But first, I think you might find you are more comfortable if you lie down.’

  When she’d lowered herself uncertainly onto the bed, Philippe unlaced her plimsolls and let them drop to the floor.

  ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you have exceptionally pretty toes?’ he asked in such a serious voice that Grace couldn’t help smile.

  Next, he undid the zipper on her jeans. ‘My apologies,’ he said, ‘but do you think you could help me to take these off, and perhaps your jersey as well?’

  She did as he asked.

  ‘Thank you — I think I can probably manage the rest.’ Very gently, he pulled down the straps of Grace’s lace bra and began to lightly kiss her shoulders and neck. ‘Mmm, what a delectable fragrance,’ he whispered. ‘Your skin has the same scent as the flowers of Giverny.’

  Grace felt her tension begin to ease and soften. Then Philippe’s mouth was on hers once more, kissing her fervently, reawakening that same glorious sense of abandonment. When at last he broke away, he gave her a long, lingering look that was more like a caress, moving his gaze from the slenderness of her legs and the curve of her hips to the swelling smoothness of her chest, the delicate bones of her shoulders, the pulse point at her neck and her full, parted lips.

  Their eyes met. ‘You really are incredibly beautiful,’ he said. ‘In fact, it’s a great pity you are wearing anything at all.’

  He reached behind her back and unfastened her bra, pausing to slowly trail the tips of his fingers across her breasts before sliding down her silky briefs. Grace moaned as he brushed her nipples with his lips. He stroked her hips and her thighs, the smooth plane of her belly, the softness between her legs.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he whispered.

  As Philippe quickly discarded his own clothing, her eyes moved across his lean torso and broad, muscled chest. He lay down very close to her and looked into her eyes. ‘A woman like you deserves to be given pleasure,’ he murmured.

  After taking his time to expertly touch and tease each sensitive part of Grace’s body, Philippe devoted himself to her most tender places until she was engulfed by almost unbearable, blissful sensations. She felt a spiral of heat, then a fierce yearning and, with it, a deep, inner awareness. This was desire, this was how it was when a woman wanted a man.

  Only then did Philippe join with her. As they moved together, Grace felt herself transform. Her shape and contours altered, became amorphous, filled with light, until, with an urgency that was at last unbound, she soared towards a brilliant, limitless sky.

  The following day, Grace arrived at the maison in a rapturous state. She’d barely slept, but even Victoire, who was not known to be generous, complimented her on her appearance.

  ‘I have never seen your complexion look better. Are you using a new preparation?’ she inquired.

  ‘If you ask me,’ Madame de Turckheim remarked, ‘what you see are the effects of romance. I can always tell when one of my girls has been struck by Cupid’s arrow.’

  Although Grace’s thoughts kept straying back to Philippe, somehow she managed to take part in the usual two parades, a photographic session for Paris Match and then a private showing for a nineteen-year-old beauty who had recently married the Viscount de Ribes. It was only when Grace had returned to the cabine, changed into her clothes and was arranging her forest-green silk foulard that Brigitte approached her.

  ‘What is it?’ Grace asked her friend. ‘You seem concerned about something.’

  ‘Not exactly concerned, no,’ Brigitte replied. ‘It’s just that, oh, it’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Now you simply have to tell me,’ Grace insisted.

  ‘Remember how you were so adamant about not wanting to get entangled with a man,’ Brigitte said, putting on her hat and gloves. ‘I thought you might enjoy my cousin’s company — he’s clever and quick-witted, as you know. But now I’m just a little anxious that I have landed you in some sort of situation in which you might, well, not want to be.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, I just have a feeling that Philippe’s life is more complicated than he lets on.’ Brigitte smiled uncertainly. ‘I’m probably being silly and over-protective — forget I said anything. Goodnight, chérie!’

  Grace was puzzled. Her well-meaning friend was very sweet, but Grace was convinced Philippe Boyer was just what he seemed. The small inconsistencies in what he’d said on the night they met, the vague feeling he was concealing something, had been a ridiculous product of her own overwrought imagination. Philippe was simply a divine Frenchman who had some quirky ideas about politics. She’d never known anyone like him before — intelligent, thoughtful, sometimes droll but always utterly intoxicating. As for last night — it had been like a dream, an experience so tender and yet so exciting that its mere recollection made her blush, even as she ached with longing.

  With her mind occupied by thoughts of her lover, Grace left the maison, dreamily contemplating the moment when, later that evening, she would be with him again.

  ‘Hi!’ Wearing a chic navy-blue coat trimmed with gold buttons, Jackie Bouvier was standing in front of the maison, swinging her calfskin handbag.

  ‘Why, what are you — oh, of course!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘What an idiot I am — we were going to meet for a drink after work. My head has been in the clouds all day.’

  ‘It’s not due to a guy, by any chance?’ Jackie’s eyes lit up.

  ‘You’re right. But it’s early days yet — I’m afraid if I say anything I might jinx the whole thing.’

  ‘That’s okay by me but, as it happens, romance is precisely the subject I want to talk to you about. Let’s cross over the avenue and head for the Plaza Athénée’s bar.’

  ‘I just love this hotel,’ Jackie said as she took a sip of her cocktail. ‘All the red awnings at the front and the red geraniums, not to mention the fact that’ — she raised her glass — ‘they mix an excellent martini.’

  ‘Monsieur Dior feels just the same way.’ Grace laughed. ‘In fact, he often requests the new collections are photographed here. Lots of people wonder why he named the most famous ensemble from his New Look show — the one with the very full, pleated black skirt and the ivory silk shantung jacket — Bar.’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Because he was so fond of this . . . bar!’

  The two women giggled as a waiter passed by and left a dish of roasted peanuts on their table.

  ‘Well?’ Grace asked. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve fallen for someone,’ Jackie said, with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘In fact, I’m mad about him — I won’t say his name, but he’s the son of someone quite well known.’

  ‘And the problem is?’

  ‘It’s that I’ve done practically everything else with him but I haven’t let him, you know’ — Jackie’s breathy voice dropped — ‘go all the way.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I don’t know! What makes it so confusing is that my mother’s from the old “save yourself for marriage” brigade — she’d be horrified if she knew I was even thinking about sleeping with a man. I thought as you’re a little older than me and, what with you being a model here in Paris . . . well, you�
�d know what I should do. Should I? Save myself for marriage, I mean.’

  The irony of this particular question being addressed to her, of all people, was not lost on Grace. Still, she had the feeling she was only being told half of the truth. Jackie and her beau might already be lovers; perhaps what she really wanted was to ease her conscience by securing approval.

  Grace loosened her scarf. ‘Despite what you say, I’m not at all sure I’m the right person to advise you about making love — before or after marriage. Although I can tell you what I have discovered — and it goes for everything, really, not just affairs of the heart. If you don’t take a gamble, you’re less likely to make a mistake. A world without risk is small and safe. But is that the life you want to live?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was in a lazy mood of pleasurable distraction that Grace sat happily beside Philippe on a low wooden bench beside the Seine. Although still only late April, the day was warm; she was glad she’d tied her hair back in a yellow scarf and chosen to wear a light sleeveless dress and espadrilles.

  The past three weeks had been the most heavenly Grace had ever experienced. Her former life seemed insubstantial; only since she’d met Philippe had she become fully alive. She felt suffused with joy as she contemplated his azure eyes and the shape of his wonderful mouth; the way he took her seriously when it mattered, yet could still tease her wickedly.

  Most of all, she marvelled at the way he made love, how exquisitely he ignited her desire. Philippe had changed her. No, he had freed her. Intimacy no longer rendered Grace shy or inhibited or cold. Since Philippe had become her lover she’d grown confident, even bold; every day her senses grew more acute. Even now, the sun’s rays on her bare arms felt like a caress.

  Philippe took her hand. ‘There is something I’d like to talk to you about,’ he said.

  ‘Is it the bouquinistes?’ she asked distractedly. ‘I was wondering earlier if we should visit that little man with the moustache who has the stand down near the Quai de la Tournelle — you know, the one who sells those funny French translations of the Sherlock Holmes novels. Or do you think we should try a bookseller at the other end?’

  ‘It’s about something important,’ Philippe added, his face stern.

  Despite the warm weather, Grace shivered. He’d never looked at her in this way before. Perhaps Philippe had decided their relationship was a mistake, that she was hopelessly bourgeois and could never fit into his world. Perhaps his feelings had changed or he’d simply grown bored — one awful possibility after another flew through her mind.

  ‘First of all, I have fallen in love with you.’

  ‘What a relief!’ she burst out. ‘The way you looked, I thought you were about to give me an awful piece of news.’

  Yet something wasn’t right. Philippe’s expression remained grim. He certainly didn’t seem like a man who’d just made an ardent declaration to his sweetheart. Somehow he must have discovered she was married or, worse, illegitimate. She waited nervously to hear what he had to say.

  ‘There is a great deal you don’t know about me,’ he began.

  ‘I could say the same thing myself,’ she said, biting her lip.

  ‘What you choose to tell me is up to you. But because I feel so strongly about you, because I’m quite hopelessly in love with you, I have to reveal who I really am — even if it comes at a cost.’

  Grace knew then with a leaden certainty that the first of her secrets must be the very same one with which Philippe was burdened. He was married. All the time he’d been making passionate love to her, he had a wife, perhaps even children, tucked away somewhere.

  It was all she could do not to groan. She remembered Brigitte’s words of concern — clearly, her friend had been trying to warn her. Instead of listening, she’d rushed into this mad affair, and look just how stupid, how naive, she had turned out to be! Everyone knew about Frenchmen and their mistresses. Yet she could have sworn that Philippe was different.

  ‘I am not a communist.’

  ‘What? You mean, you’re not married?’ Her spirits soared.

  ‘Chérie, I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘It’s just that, when you were so serious, I thought . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Let me assure you, I am not that sort of man.’ Philippe’s eyes flashed. ‘How could you think such a thing? Don’t you know me at all?’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t. You have been talking about your marvellous membership of the party ever since I met you. Now you say you’re not a communist. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘That is my fault,’ he said. ‘I know we haven’t been together long, but you must believe me — I love you and no one else. That is why I want to be completely honest.’

  Grace felt assailed by guilt, by the knowledge that she’d kept so much from him. She knew she must also disclose the truth. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ she asked instead.

  He fixed his gaze on the light dancing across the surface of the river. ‘When the war broke out I joined the party. I was only twenty years old and communism seemed to me the best way, the only way to fight the evils of fascism. As soon as I could, I entered the Resistance,’ he continued. ‘We had some success at sabotaging the Nazis, but during one attempt, things went badly wrong. As a result,’ Philippe’s voice quavered, ‘my mother died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Grace felt a hollow dismay. ‘When I told you my father had passed away I never imagined you had endured something even worse. To lose your mother in those circumstances must have been horrifying.’

  ‘Let’s just say I didn’t cope very well.’ Philippe sighed. ‘What with my grief, the constant fighting, forever running, always hiding, a sort of madness came over me. That’s when my dedication to communism turned into an obsession.’

  ‘And where is your father?’

  ‘Gone. Gaston, the man I call my father, has buried himself away on a farm deep in Burgundy. I hardly see him.’

  Grace silently berated herself. She should have asked Philippe about his family much earlier. Instead, she’d been relieved he never mentioned them — it had saved her from having to mislead him about her own situation.

  ‘Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘after the war I came to my senses.’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ Grace said, confused. ‘I thought you were still committed to the communist movement. You work for their paper — and you had all those plans for the future.’

  ‘I did once. I thought Stalin was building a workers’ paradise — until I discovered his responsibility for cold-blooded crimes, for terrible purges. Then came the Prague coup, and I realised he was every bit as bad as Hitler.’ Philippe paused. ‘Grace, there’s so much I need to explain. Shall we walk for a while?’

  As they meandered hand in hand along the peaceful riverbank, he said, ‘I’m sure you are aware that Berlin is like an island, completely surrounded by Soviet-controlled territory?’

  Grace nodded vaguely, wondering what possible reason Philippe might have for mentioning this curious situation.

  ‘But I am not certain if you know that last year Stalin cut off all rail, road and canal access; his intention was that no food or fuel would be able to reach the city. The great hero of the people was only too delighted to see thousands of men, women and children freeze to death or die of starvation in order to further his aggressive ambitions.’

  Philippe paused in front of a man in a striped Breton jersey playing an out-of-tune accordion, then placed a few coins in the upturned beret on the ground in front of him.

  ‘That was the first time I saw how America, France and Great Britain could work together, not to punish their former German enemies, but to save them,’ he said. ‘Only their constant airlift of supplies stopped Stalin’s conquest.’

  It seemed to Grace that the tranquil summer day had assumed a surreal dimension. While carefree Parisian families strolled by, their children licking ice creams, the people of Berlin were reco
vering from a threat to their very existence.

  ‘I love France. I am a patriot. It is a very hard thing to admit you have been wrong, but I was utterly deluded.’ Philippe shook his head.

  ‘Well then, why haven’t you left the Communist Party?’

  ‘Because I cannot.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Philippe lowered his voice. ‘I work for the French security service,’ he said.

  Grace gulped. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I am what is called a double agent.’ He stood very still. ‘That means I have passed myself off as someone else, not only to the communist cell I have infiltrated, but to you.’

  ‘So, everything you told me — it was all an act?’ It was hard to grasp what Philippe was saying.

  ‘Not everything, of course not. Just what I said about my job and the way I carried on about my supposed political beliefs. Believe me, there is nothing false about anything else, especially the way I feel about you.’

  Grace placed her hand on his arm. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you at all. There is a whole page of undertakings I have made to the French state that I’m breaking.’ Philippe pushed a lock of his hair away from his brow. ‘But I couldn’t stand deceiving you.’

  Grace felt guiltier than ever. This was the moment to disclose her own secrets. Mustering every bit of her courage, she said, ‘There is something —’

  ‘Chérie, I’m sorry to interrupt you but I must finish,’ Philippe insisted. ‘There’s one more reason I had for telling you the truth. You have the right to know that your relationship with me could place you in danger.’

  She felt as if, one by one, Philippe was destroying every comfortable assumption she’d made about their life together.

  ‘I can see I have shocked you. If you want to end what we have between us, I will be completely broken-hearted. But I will understand.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you!’ Grace said in a rush. ‘I’m just . . . taken aback. You told me you were a journalist — I never imagined you inhabited a completely different world.’ Her mind reeling, she wondered just how many other people there might be in her life who were not what they seemed.